


Favourites

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Fluff, M/M, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s been raining pretty solidly for two days now, anywhere from a mist to downpour. </i>
</p><p>John just wants to stay in bed. Sherlock can work with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favourites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snogandagrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/gifts).



> A million and one thanks to snogandagrope for encouraging me to write this and being beta. This was mostly a practice in writing foreplay for me.
> 
> I also have to thank the handful of perfectbenny.tumblr.com followers who humoured me in chat and helped me tweak along the way, especially Angela who let me bother her even more. I LOVE YOU ALL HUGS TO EVERYONE.
> 
> Feedback is loved. While I can't promise this story will be much in the way of updated, I'll take feedback into consideration for future works.
> 
> I have no idea what possessed me to write this in present tense. Sorry for any tense mistakes.
> 
> Also, fuck titles. I hate them.

John wakes up to the sounds of London drowning. It’s been raining pretty solidly for two days now, anywhere from a mist to downpour. It invades everything, and even in the interior bedroom John can hear it, muffled as it is. John drags himself from the bed and down the hall to the bathroom. When he walks out again, he peers into the parlour and kitchen, but there’s no sign of Sherlock. John doesn’t want to think about what the man might be getting up to in this weather. Sherlock’s been more restless than usual, going so far as to complain that _rain didn’t stop people from killing and dying, so where are all the cases? Lestrade hasn’t texted in_ and at that point John zones out until Sherlock settles into a silent childish pout.

The time of day isn’t clear through the rain, though it’s at least certainly daytime. The grey light coming through the sheets outside the window says as much, having replaced the yellowish-orange of the streetlamps. Whether it’s early or the rain, John doesn’t feel like really waking up yet. He goes back to the bedroom and falls gracelessly onto the mattress. He wraps himself in the bedcovers, but just as he thinks he’s about drift off again he hears footsteps in the hall and Sherlock bursts in.

Sherlock doesn’t say a word. He simply flings himself onto the bed beside John, sitting with his back against the headboard and steeples his fingers below his chin. He’s still in his pyjamas, with the addition of the blue dressing gown he shot a hole in the sleeve of last month. John always has to fight the urge to tease him about it, about the obvious sentiment it holds. He voiced the thought once, the first time Sherlock wore it after ruining it, and Sherlock threatened to throw it out. But John likes it just as much. The colour always reflects nicely in Sherlock’s eyes.

John only looks over his shoulder, staying put curled up with his back in the centre of the bed. Now, since Sherlock doesn’t seem to care to rant about whatever was bothering him—probably still just the rain and lack of cases—John nestles his head back into his pillow. After a moment he feels Sherlock’s long, slender fingers tracing lines down his back. John smiles into his pillow, eyes still closed. The digits trace strange patterns through the fabric of John’s tee shirt. Not random, nothing Sherlock does is ever random, even if it seems that way to John. When the fingers stop, Sherlock rests his hand on John’s side. John sighs.

“Something wrong?” Sherlock looks John over with one sweeping glance.

“No,” John murmurs. “That was just really nice.” He presses back into Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock resumes his delicate touch for a moment. Then he slides down to lay beside John. John pushes back so their bodies are flush. Sherlock brushes his fingers down John’s bare forearm, sliding through the golden hair. He leans forward and kissed John’s shoulder through the cotton, right where the centre of his scar was. John lets out a soft, “Mm.” Sherlock presses his lips against the top of John’s shoulder and hums against him.

Sherlock lifts himself on one arm and cups his other hand over John’s shoulder, pushing him gently on his back. John looks up at Sherlock with a sleepy smile. Sherlock leans down and kissed his forehead, then his mouth. It’s soft, chaste even, as he runs his fingers down John’s other arm.

“You’re in a good mood,” John sigh contentedly, closing his eyes again, enjoying the detective—no—the violinist’s gentle fingers, which are now tracing his collarbone through his shirt.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

John squints one eye open, smirking. “Because it’s the third day of solid rain and you haven’t had a case since last week.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls his hand just barely above the neckline of John’s shirt. “Would you rather me, as you put it, ‘pout like a spoiled child who likes to blow up the flat when he doesn’t get what he wants’?”

John winces. “No. Sorry, I wasn’t complaining.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and puts it flat against his chest.

A sly look glints in Sherlock’s eyes as the corners of his mouth twitch. He lowers his head so his mouth is to John’s ear. “Honestly, John. I was only teasing.” Before John can reply, Sherlock lips John’s earlobe. John breathes in and presses Sherlock’s hand closer. As Sherlock moves his mouth from John’s ear down his neck, he escapes John’s hold and moves his hand down and under John’s shirt. He runs his hand in an arc up John’s torso and down to settle on his waist. All the while he leaves red marks in a line down the curve of John’s neck, from behind his ear until he reaches fabric. John combs his fingers through the mess of Sherlock’s black curls.

Sherlock sits and folds his legs under him slantwise. He pushes John’s shirt up with both hands. John raises his arms and Sherlock tugs it off, tossing it off the side of the bed. He brushes his thumbs against each shoulder before sliding them down to John’s stomach. He leans down and kisses right below the arch of John’s ribcage.

John’s suddenly come over with conflicting reactions. Since coming back to London, he’d lost a lot of the firmness he’d maintained in Afghanistan, especially around his middle. He isn’t fat, but the sporadic chases and fights he has working at Sherlock’s side aren’t enough to keep up a toned stomach. He doesn’t like to think about how his fitness has gotten away from him. Now it’s all he can think about as Sherlock concentrates his hands and lips and—yes, now his tongue—on just that region of John’s body. John shifts uncomfortably.

Sherlock looks up at him. “What’s wrong?” There’s a clear tone of concern, worry that maybe he’s done something.

“Nothing, I just- nothing, never mind.”

But, as usual, “never mind” is not a part of Sherlock’s vocabulary. It only takes him a moment to suss out what’s bothering John. Or at least part of it. “Does your stomach hurt? You don’t look ill.” He reaches up to feel John’s forehead, but John catches his hand.

“No, I’m not sick. It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s nothing.” John tries to smile reassuringly.

Of course, what’s meant to be reassuring does the exact opposite with Sherlock. He traces the hairline around John’s ear. “Don’t lie to me, John.” He doesn’t say it forcefully. In fact, his voice is rather gentle, and John knows there’s a _please_ in there somewhere, hidden.

“I’m sorry,” John says. He means it. He doesn’t like lying to Sherlock. He wants honesty between them. They both do. “Could you just, you know, focus somewhere else?”

John’s tone is what confuses Sherlock. Of course, if John had said it differently it would sound like he was teasing, playful. Sherlock’s other hand is still on John’s stomach, and now he circles a patch of John’s stomach with his thumb. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“Yes, it’s just-” John squirms. It does feel good. It’s not as if Sherlock had never touched his stomach before, just never with such concentration. John could always think about the other things Sherlock was doing to him and other parts of his body.

“Why won’t you tell me?” Sherlock hasn’t stopped circling his thumb. John has a feeling he won’t either, not until John spits it out.

He looks away from Sherlock and mutters, “It’s stupid and vain.”

Sherlock quirks a brow, and it’s obvious he’s trying to keep a straight face for John’s sake. He stretches out a little on the bed, keeping his head level with John’s stomach. He rests his hands on John’s sides again and kisses him right in the middle. “I like your stomach,” he says softly, tilting his head up just to see if John’s watching. He is. Sherlock plants another kiss, rubs his hands to the top of John’s hips before bringing them to rest flat on John’s stomach. “It’s soft.” Another kiss. “Warm.” He turns and puts his cheek to flesh. “Calm.” He draws lines and circles with one of his fingers. “I could fall asleep with my head right here. In fact, I think I have done that.”

“Sherlock,” John groans, and his voice is a mix of annoyance and pleasure.

Sherlock sits up, but only to shrug off his dressing gown and pull his shirt over his head, dropping it behind him. John watches him, his breath a little shallow. Sherlock lifts his right leg and sets it down so he’s kneeling over John. John brings up his knees behind Sherlock.

“Now that’s a nice stomach,” John can’t help himself from saying. And it’s true. Sherlock’s stomach is flat and hard. John always thought it was because the man never ate, but really he just has one of those metabolisms and bodies.

The first time John saw Sherlock without a shirt off scared him. Sherlock had walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, muttering about the laundry and how his bathrobe wasn’t in the bathroom where it ought to have been. The man had practically no meat behind muscle and skin. His ribs were horrifyingly visible, not just as vague shadows but distinct. He could have counted half of them without a doctor’s eye. John knew the man was skinny, bony, didn’t eat, worked himself to what would be death for most men—but the sight shocked him nevertheless. He tripled his efforts of forcing Sherlock to eat like a proper human being. Sherlock must have noticed, must have deduced, but he never commented on it. He was still as stubborn, but he did eventually start eating slightly larger portions of what John put in front of him.

Now Sherlock’s ribs are generally only visible when he stretches or takes a deep breath. He’s still skinny. Bound with sinewy muscle, sure, but John’s a doctor for chrissake: he knows muscle doesn’t always equate to healthy. Sherlock’s still medically underweight, but at least he no longer appears half emaciated. John reaches up to touch Sherlock’s smooth, tight stomach, but Sherlock catches his hands and twines their fingers together.

“Dull,” he says. “Not at all interesting.” He leans back lightly against John’s thighs. He releases one of John’s hands and settles his palm on John’s stomach. “Beautiful.” John blushes. Sherlock sees this, of course he does, and bends forward to kiss John.

It starts out as soft as the last one, but John wriggles his other hand free and twists his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, pressing his mouth tighter against Sherlock’s. He runs his tongue between his lips and across Sherlock’s, and Sherlock opens his mouth willingly. Their tongues slide together, converging in the new space created between their mouths, not fully inside one or the other’s. It’s Sherlock who breaks away first, and John nips Sherlock’s bottom lip lightly in protest. But it’s just Sherlock’s arms, which he’s braced awkwardly on either side of John, that are causing the momentary pause. He repositions himself on his side, tugging John to roll onto his, and wraps his legs around and through John’s.

“You really like my stomach?” John says when their faces are once again close. It feels like a stupid question, but it’s out now.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. “But,” and for a moment John’s gut twists, “I would like it just as much if it was twice or half the size it is.” When Sherlock see John’s frown he rolls his eyes and says, exasperated,” It’s part of you. Why wouldn’t I like it?”

Sherlock’s never been eloquent with sweet talk, at least not when it comes to being completely open and honest with John, which usually just makes John chuckle. But at the moment John’s head is rushing and his chest swells ridiculously. He doesn’t care. He rolls them over until he’s sitting on Sherlock. He cups Sherlock’s face between his hands and kisses him deeply. It’s so sudden it doesn’t take long before Sherlock has to break for air. Then they’re in it again, and Sherlock wraps his arms up behind John’s, pressing splayed fingers against his shoulder blades. Sherlock moans low in his throat, and that’s all it takes to set John on fire. He slides his hands up Sherlock’s jaw line and into his hair, twirling and tugging. Sherlock leans his head back, breaking the kiss.

“John,” he breathes in sharply.

“Hm?” John teases, looking down from his perch just above Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock starts to scowl, but a tug at his locks makes his jaw relax and his eyelids slip down. “Suck me?”

“Oh god yes,” Sherlock says, his voice somewhere between a growl and a purr.

They switch places again, taking the rest of their clothes off in the process. John lays back on the pillows as Sherlock sinks down the bed. John’s already started to get hard, they both have. Sherlock runs his fingers lightly down John’s sides, thumbs brushing his nipples as they travel down his torso. John reaches and combs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock looks up at him.

“Well?” John huffs.

Sherlock grins, and in any other situation that look would be unsettling. He keeps both his hands teasingly on John’s hips for a moment longer, caressing the bones with his thumbs. John is tempted to kick him, but of course that’s the moment Sherlock lowers a hand and rubs a thumb lightly down the underside, and he wraps his fingers around the shaft. Sherlock breathes warmly against the tip, making John shiver, before kissing it and pressing his lips around the head. He does little more than tickle John’s foreskin with his tongue, tempting John to dig his nails into Sherlock’s scalp in protest. Sherlock swirls around the glans and sucks lightly at first. He brings his other hand up to John’s balls and smooths his thumb over the skin before he starts massaging them.

John’s foreskin is stretched taught. Sherlock runs the flat of his tongue up the underside of the shaft before wrapping his lips around the head again and licks at the pre-come that emerges, groaning around John. The vibrations make him shudder. John figures out from the shift in Sherlock’s breathing what Sherlock’s about to do just before it happens, and suddenly Sherlock is swallowing him whole. John’s fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair and he gasps as Sherlock pulls back to the head. It’s something John still hasn’t gotten the hang of, though he’s working on it. It’s still breathtaking to look down and watch Sherlock push his mouth down again, no matter how many times John’s seen him do it. He’ll never get over the sight of those lips sinking down, the feel of Sherlock’s throat. The image alone has gotten him off more than once.

“Sher- Sherlock,” John gasps, tugging at the curls. Sherlock comes back up, sucking as he releases John. He can’t help but rub his hand up the shaft before letting go, and every inch of John’s body shudders. He urges Sherlock up and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling himself up as much as he pulls Sherlock down. When he pushes his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, he can taste himself there, the musk and the pre-come mixed with the taste of Sherlock himself. He moans into Sherlock’s mouth, bringing forth a similar, but more carnal sound from the other man.

John’s hands glide down the curve of Sherlock’s back. He brushes his fingertips down Sherlock’s cleft and Sherlock shivers against him, deepening the kiss with a throaty moan. John reaches blindly for the nightstand, but Sherlock’s hand gets there first and nudges John’s aside. He digs into the drawer and retrieves the bottle of lube. John reaches up to take it from him, but Sherlock presses lightly against his chest, so John just relaxes, eyes wide.

Sherlock pushes himself up so he’s kneeling above John again. He squeezes a copious amount into the palm of his hand, snaps the bottle shut, and sets it on the nightstand. He spreads the lube on his hands while John watches short of breath. “What’s your favourite part?” Sherlock says in a low voice as he reaches one hand behind himself. He slicks the other down his own half-hard cock.

“Huh?” John manages stupidly. “Favourite... what?” He meets Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock smirks. “Your favourite part. Of me,” he adds, to clarify. He hasn’t started to move yet. He’s just holding himself there.

John swallows. “I don’t think I can be very unbiased at the moment.” He grins and Sherlock sighs, but it’s clear he’s not sincere about his annoyance.

“Very well. I will have to pose the question again at a later time.” John manages a nod, but the view above him finally renders him speechless. Sherlock leans his head back slowly, until his curls fall at his shoulders, his Adam’s apple jutting out. John is torn between the sight of that neck, curved and strained, and those fingers pulling long strokes as Sherlock hardens in front of him.

He can’t see what’s happening on the other side, but he can imagine it. He’s felt those fingers before, slipped one at a time inside him. Sherlock is as amazing with his fingers as he is with his mouth, maybe more so. Musician’s hands. And, oh, can Sherlock play. That first finger alone is enough to drive John mad, running slick around his hole, circling in a short, tight spiral, teasing before Sherlock finally presses it inside. He twists it gently, meticulously, corkscrews it until that long digit is swallowed. John can see every time Sherlock swipes against his own prostate, his body tensing and his hand pausing around his cock, but only for a moment. The rhythm continues.

Sherlock pulls that first finger out, and just the thought elicits a low groan from John’s chest. He can just make out the rueful smile on Sherlock’s face, and then there’s two fingers. Pushing their way along the past of the first, all the way in before they start to stretch apart, shallowly at first, growing in breadth until they’re scissoring the hole wider and wider. Those slender fingers stroke ever inner surface they find, pressuring the prostate teasingly. A soft moan escapes Sherlock’s mouth and John’s cock twitches at the sound, at the sight of this man fucking himself in front of him. John grasps Sherlock’s thighs right above where the knees are sunk into the mattress on either side of him. Sherlock’s movements stop and he rolls his head around to look at John. His eyelids fall heavy as he slides his fingers out of himself. He reaches back without looking and runs his slick hand down and up John’s cock.

“Sherlock!” John gasps, head pressed against the pillow. He brings up his knees until he can barely feel Sherlock’s arse against his thighs, toes curling into the sheets. His fingers sink into Sherlock’s skin, bruising them no doubt. When he feels Sherlock pressing his cleft around John’s cock, John’s eyes shoot open and he looks at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes quirk curiously, but only for a moment before he smiles and emits a sound from his throat like a purr.

John grips Sherlock’s hips and they tumble over in the bed. Sherlock lands heavily on his back; he clearly didn’t think John would be quite so sudden, but what should he expect after that show? John lifts Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders, and Sherlock nudges his hips closer.

“Fuck me, John,” he whispers, the sound low in his throat. John’s sure his eyes widen an absurd amount, and he thinks he may have just nodded a little. Sherlock reaches his arms over his head, gripping the headboard. “Hard,” he says, practically commands it of John.

They’re orders John is glad to obey. In a minute. Sherlock has a habit of being impatient with everything, especially sex. John gets a better hold on Sherlock’s arse and lifts it higher. He runs his fingertips along Sherlock’s perineum, teasing the entrance. It’s wet and loosened, so beautifully. John presses the head of his cock against it. Sherlock is still snug, though, too impatient. John presses in slowly, despite Sherlock’s urgent tone a moment ago and the noises issuing forth from that mouth, knowing what they do to John. John steadies himself with a deep, shaky breath, and Sherlock wriggles around him impatiently. John pushes him down and gr, one hand on Sherlock’s hip and the other on the opposite thigh.

“Hold still,” John mutters.

“No,” Sherlock says in a flat tone. If it wasn’t for the arousal in Sherlock’s eyes, he’d be glaring at John. It’s not the first time he’s been impatient about sex, but there have been a few mistakes John refuses to repeat.

So he forces Sherlock to keep still as he pushes his way in completely. He’s breathing hard by then, they both are. John meets Sherlock’s eyes and holds his gaze. Not for the first time, John feels completely consumed by Sherlock, by those eyes alone.

Sherlock growls through a tight jaw, “Fuck. Me.” He clenches himself around John and John lurches slightly.

John pulls out until just the head of his cock keeps Sherlock open, and slowly he pushes back in. He repeats this a few more times, long strokes, each a little faster. He’s mesmerized by shallow rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock hitches his hips more, asking and demanding and begging wordlessly.

“You are gorgeous,” John says breathily. Sherlock starts to scowl, but John takes that moment to quicken his pace with shallower thrusts.

Sherlock’s back arches beautifully and it’s one of those moments John can see the lines of his ribcage again. He runs his fingers over the ridges before resuming his grip on Sherlock’s hip, pounding and snapping his hips as he tries to keep control a little longer.

John leans forward and Sherlock’s legs slip from his shoulders. He bends over Sherlock, bringing the man’s knees practically to his chest. Sherlock relinquishes his hold on the headboard to wrap his arms around John, his thighs too, squeezing John closer and deeper inside of him. A constant moan is pouring out of Sherlock’s mouth, breath hitching as he utters John’s name over and over. John shimmies a hand between them, wrapping it Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock cries wordlessly, head thrown back into the pillow, dark curls a splayed mess. John dips his tongue into the exposed hollow of Sherlock’s throat and Sherlock convulses under him, around him. He strokes in time with his thrusts, and it only takes a few before Sherlock to come into John’s hand and up both of their chests. The hot, wet mess and the feel of Sherlock tight around him drives John into his last rough, desperate thrusts before his muscles tense and he comes inside Sherlock. For a moment his vision blurs and all he can do is feel, and all he feels is Sherlock on every centimetre of him.

For a moment they’re both still, panting through the last twitches in their bodies, John’s hand sandwiched between them. His other arm is shakily braced beside Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s limbs go limp and he slowly lets go of John. John shifts his arms and pulls out carefully, they’re both so tender. He lays down on top of Sherlock, nuzzling his face into the pillow by Sherlock’s ear, breathing half against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock runs one of his hands through John’s hair and turns his head to press his nose against John’s neck.

“That’s one way to start my day,” John says, voice muffled against Sherlock and the pillow. He feels Sherlock laugh beneath him and joins in. He shifts himself enough so he can press his lips against Sherlock’s in a soft kiss. Sherlock runs his fingers up John’s hair against the growth, and light goose bumps form on the back of his neck and arms.

“I’m sure we could devise a plan to incorporate it into your routine,” Sherlock murmurs against his cheek. For a fleeting moment John entertains the idea of fucking—or being fucked by—Sherlock every morning. That would be the life.

“Mm, should shower.” John mutters. He kisses Sherlock’s jaw and licks the sweat from his lips.

“I could be of assistance.”

John laughs. “Let me see if I can even move first.” Part of him is reluctant to move, despite the drying ejaculate between them and the cooling sweat over his entire body. He rolls off Sherlock and onto his back, and for a moment he could just fall asleep there in a post-coital haze. His eyes are even closing when the mattress shifts and Sherlock is getting to his feet. John watches as a narrow drip of his ejaculate trickles down the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. His stomach squirms pleasantly at the sight. Before Sherlock can take a step, John turns around in the bed and snatches Sherlock’s hip. He pulls Sherlock back so his legs are against the mattress and kisses his arse, bites it lightly and sucks . When he glances up, Sherlock is looking over his shoulder with a bemused smile.

John climbs out of bed and follows Sherlock to the bathroom. It’s clear from Sherlock’s gait that he’s trying to keep from dripping, and as soon as he’s in the shower he relaxes his arse. He barely shudders when John turns on the tap and just leans against the wall of the shower with his eyes closed while the water warms up.

“Turn around,” John says, almost as if he’s talking to a child. He unhooks the removable showerhead, which was probably their second best investment in the flat after the extra fire extinguisher for the parlour. Sherlock rotates and allows John to rinse him off. There’s a red handprint forming on his hip, and John bites his lip a little guilty, a little excited by the mark. He’s sure his neck is covered in bruises from Sherlock’s mouth. He’ll have to borrow one of Sherlock’s scarves again the next time they go out.

John finally climbs into the shower behind Sherlock and slides the glass door shut. He hooks the showerhead back on and wraps his arms around Sherlock as the hot water soaks them both. They scrub each other down, planting kisses on each area after they’ve washed it: shoulder, arm, chest, stomach, hip, thigh. Sherlock even kisses the bottom of John’s foot and the light brush of his lips tickles, and it would send John crashing down if not for the tight space. By the time they’re clean, they’re both aroused again.

Sherlock wraps one arm around John, and with his other hand he takes his own cock and John’s in those long fingers. John groans and leans against Sherlock’s chest, holding onto his shoulders. John cranes his head back, and Sherlock is quick to dip into a hard open-mouthed kiss. There’s as much water as saliva in their mouths as Sherlock pulls them off. He comes first again, but there’s only a pause before he continues, rubbing his twitching cock against John’s as water washes over them and ejaculate drips onto their feet. Sherlock brings John off and they stand shuddering together. But the water is growing tepid, so they reluctantly hurry to clean up again before shutting it off.

They wrap themselves up in their bathrobes and towel-dry their hair so it’s not dripping. John shuffles off to the kitchen to start breakfast, his stomach rumbling. A small wave of disappointment washes over him when he remembers the rain, currently a light drizzle. He sighs and puts the kettle on.

When John comes out to the parlour balancing a plate of toast and two teas, Sherlock is on the sofa skimming his favourite Dawkins book, _The Selfish Gene_. He’s done this for a while, probably starting not long after their relationship became physical. No matter what time of night or day, Sherlock has this book in his hands after sex. Sometimes he’ll spend hours with it, sometimes only a few minutes. He’s taken to keeping it on the desk rather than the shelf. John’s curious, but he doesn’t ask why. It’s one of Sherlock’s many quirks, and it’s just plain endearing. John sets breakfast on the coffee table and curls up next to Sherlock, passing over his mug. Sherlock takes it wordlessly and continues reading for a moment. He closes the book abruptly and sets it down beside the toast.

“Thank you,” he says, picking up a piece of toast. It still surprises John when Sherlock voices his gratitude. It’s taken a while, he used to get so annoyed with Sherlock about it, but now John understands that Sherlock appreciates what he does whether he says so or not. When he does voice it, though, John flushes slightly.

“You’re welcome,” he says and grabs a piece for himself.

After they’ve finished off the plate, John puts his mostly empty mug on the table and curls his feet onto the sofa and leans against Sherlock. Sherlock wraps his arm around him and stares out the window, or off into his mind palace in that general direction. John can’t tell without seeing his eyes, to see if he’s focused on the physical world or the world inside his head. Right now he doesn’t care. 

“John,” Sherlock says his name in a tone that tells John there’s a question to follow.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you now?”

“Ask me what?”

Sherlock turns to look at him. “Which part is your favourite?”

John chuckles. “Does it matter? All of you. Like you said, I can’t hate a part of you. I love it all.”

“But that wasn’t the question.” The bridge of his nose crinkles slightly, and he’s obviously biting back an exasperated sigh.

“Favourite? I don’t know. Your mind.”

“My mind?” Sherlock’s brow arched. “I would think that, if anything, my mind would annoy you the most.”

“It does, sometimes. But it’s also,” John paused, “adorable.” Sherlock blinked in surprise, and John laughed. “It’s brilliant, you’re brilliant, but you can also be so naive.”

Now Sherlock did sigh, a long one. “You’re going to bring up the damned solar system again, aren’t you?”

Actually he isn’t. John is thinking about something else entirely, about their first time. Well, their attempted first time. Sherlock was impatient, frustrated that John was obsessing—in his mind at least—with preparation. It had forced John to ask what his previous sexual encounters had been like; Sherlock had made it very clear to John he wasn’t a virgin. John almost regretted asking in the end. All in all, Sherlock had had three different partners: one at boarding school, and two at university. And every one of them sounded like rape to John’s ears. There had been nothing romantic about the way the three men had used Sherlock for their own pleasure, fucking him hard and fast and painfully, with little to no consideration for the man they were bedding. It had taken John a good while before he was comfortable touching Sherlock intimately again, nothing more than a snog. When it finally came to it, though, he surprised Sherlock. He made the entire experience about Sherlock’s pleasure, shocked him when he climbed onto Sherlock and bore himself onto his cock. He’d bottom before, but only twice. He didn’t mind. He wanted Sherlock to remember it, to realize it was about both of them.

They talked about it later, about what those men had done to Sherlock. Sherlock went quiet and John could tell from his eyes that he had disappeared, despite being right next to him. John just held him until he came back. When he did, Sherlock brushed it off with one nonchalant comment and they never brought it up again. But John felt that while Sherlock’s mind was away, he had come to terms with it: all these years later he finally understood what had happened wasn’t lovemaking. Those men had fucked him, worn him, and tossed him out. And as he accepted that, he accepted this was not the case with John Watson. John Watson truly cared for him. This was a two-way relationship. That was the first night Sherlock had shown John just want his fingers could do.

“Yeah,” John said. “Like the ‘damned solar system.’” Sherlock could probably tell he was lying, might even know what John was thinking. Most likely. But he didn’t say anything. John picked up one of Sherlock’s hands and rand his fingers along those spindly digits. “And your hands. I like your hands.” He turned it over and raised it up to his lips. He leaned down and gave the palm a gentle kiss.


End file.
